


The Wild Hunt

by bluebeholder



Series: the longest night [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel Advent Calendar 2015, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:16:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Winter Solstice, Dean and Sam summon the Wild Hunt to help them find a wayward Angel of the Lord. </p><p>It doesn't end up being half as easy as it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean slammed the book shut. “Useless,” he muttered. He shoved it aside and reached for the next one on the pile.

He’d just barely cracked the cover when he was interrupted. “I think I found something,” Sam said from the doorway.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

Sam came over and sat down next to Dean, holding out a book that was so old the edges were starting to literally crumble. “Look here,” he said, and pointed to a blurry woodcut illustration. A host of dogs and riders pursued a bleeding stag across the page. “The Wild Hunt. If you want to find someone, they’re your best bet.”

Dean squinted at the tiny, crabbed print under the illustration. It was smudged by time and many hands. He couldn’t even figure out where words started. “What does this even say?”

“It describes how to summon them, and what to do when they arrive.” Sam leaned back in his chair, staring at the book. “The window is really small—they have to be called on the Solstice.”

“Based on our luck…that would be, what tonight?” Dean tried to identify letters in the book. Impossible. He didn’t know how Sam managed to read that stuff.

“Yeah,” Sam said. He ran a finger along a wavering line of words. “Tonight.”

“Fine,” Dean said. “So we summon ’em, we ride out with ’em, we find Cas, and everything turns out okay for once.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know, though. I know I brought up the option, but it’s dangerous, Dean. If we screw up the summons, they’ll chase us down instead.”

Something jerked tight in Dean’s chest at the idea of leaving this alone. Cas was out there somewhere, with Heaven and the Darkness and who even knew what else chasing him down. He swallowed hard to get rid of the sudden lump in his throat and said flatly, “It’s Cas. He’s worth it.”

Sam studied him for a moment. Dean tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. “Okay,” Sam said at last. “Let me get some stuff together.”

It didn’t take long for Sam to get his crap together. By the time he was ready, though, Dean was already in the car. They drove out to the middle of nowhere. Dean wanted to floor it—let the engine roar and melt the snow with the heat from the tires—but he couldn’t. Baby just couldn’t handle icy roads well enough to make doing that a smart choice, and if he wanted to find Cas he had to be careful. 

Sam told him when to pull over. They walked into the silent woods, side by side. Sam had a duffel bag full of summoning crap. Dean had several guns. To each his own, Dean thought, and checked the sawed-off again.

When they hit a clearing, Sam stopped first. Dean halted just ahead of Sam, waiting for the verdict. For a second, they just stood and watched. The snow fell straight down into glimmering piles around the trees, filling up the clearing. It was up to Dean’s knees. The trees were almost perfectly arranged in a ring. Frost hung heavy from the branches. Everything was perfectly still. Nothing moved but the faint flecks of snow. It was eerie.

“This’ll work,” Sam said at last. His words came out in clouds that glittered in the white light of Dean’s flashlight.

They didn’t talk much while Sam set up the ritual. Dean paced around the edges of the clearing, shining his flashlight into the empty blackness between the trees, listening to the crunch of his boots on the snow. It was cold out here. Dean did his best not to think about Cas, out there in the dark, when the temperature was dropping…he didn’t think about that too much.

The summoning was a chant in German, which, wow, Dean didn’t know that Sam spoke German, so put another mark in the “Awesome Things Sam Does” column. There was a bit with spilling blood on the snow, and lighting a small fire, dropping something that belonged to Cas into it so that the Wild Hunt would know its prey, and so on and so forth. When it was over, they stood in silence, listening to the snow falling in the darkness.

A distant sound, the faint blast of a trumpet, echoed through the sky.

“Was that it?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know,” Sam said.

They waited more, listening to the darkness. Dean’s teeth hurt with anticipation. His breath fogged out in great clouds. He wasn’t ready, but he wanted this to happen. They had to find Cas.

A new sound faded in, right on the edge of Dean’s hearing. Barking and yelping, with the faint sound of horses’ hooves and the jingling of small bells. He checked the sawed-off again and made sure the other guns were within easy reach. 

“They’re coming,” Sam said. He was still, tense, staring with wide eyes out of their clearing. 

Dean drew in a deep breath and tried to relax. If they were hostile, if the ritual had gone wrong, he’d have one good shot. One shot to get it right.

His heart drummed faster, speeding to match the sound of hooves drawing nearer and nearer as the baying of the hounds came closer. It was fear the likes of which Dean hadn’t felt in a long time. Primal, bestial, a fear that made him want to run and run and never stop. But he held his ground, even though his hands were shaking.

A shadow flashed past, at the edge of the flashlight, and Dean flinched. A dog. A big dog, bigger than a wolf. They were going to die. The ritual had gone wrong, hadn’t it? More of them appeared, all shadows and flickering red eyes. Dean took a step closer to Sam and felt Sam’s shoulder brush his own. “Calm, Dean,” Sam breathed. “Just…stay calm.”

The snow had stopped, at some point. The clouds had cleared just enough to bring the moon out. It threw silvery light through the clearing. The dogs were nothing more than shadows in the faint gleam, but the shadows were more than enough to make Dean want to run away screaming.

A loud neighing bugled through the forest. Dean half-raised the shotgun and Sam pushed the barrel down again. Dean didn’t take his eyes off the woods to glare at Sam, though he wanted to. A group of horses trotted into the clearing. Their bridles, saddles, and breastplates were adorned with bells that jingled merrily as they moved. There were three riders and…Dean took a quick count…five horses. The riderless pair were being led by one of the other horses. Every one of the horses was magnificent, tall and proud, as black and gleaming as the Impala’s paint.

“The hell are they doing here?” Sam muttered. 

“Damn,” Dean said with deep feeling. He seriously contemplated just pulling the trigger right now. Rowena and Crowley were riding two of the horses, leading the pack of hounds into the clearing.

Rowena reined in her horse, which stopped with its ears back and shook its head irritably. She waved at them. “So good to see you, darlings,” she said merrily. She wore a black gown that seemed a bit inappropriate for riding horses, and a crown of…was that mistletoe on her head? The pale leaves and white berries shone in the light of the lantern she carried.

Crowley’s horse sauntered up next to hers. “Hello, boys,” he said. He also had a crown of greenery, this one with small red flowers like drops of blood, perched at a rakish angle. He wasn’t wearing the trademark suit-and-tie, but some outfit that looked like it walked right out of Game of Thrones.

“Don’t shoot them,” Sam said. He was glaring at Rowena like he wanted to shoot her, but continued: “They’re probably here for the same reason we are.”

Dean grimaced and lowered the shotgun. “If I’d have known we were going to see you two tonight, I would have stayed home,” he said. 

Rowena leaned forward over her saddle with a maternal smile. “Oh, would you now? Little Sammy is precisely correct about why we’re both here.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean growled.

Before anything else could be said, the third rider dismounted his horse and came forward into the center of the clearing. Dean and Sam both took a step back at his approach. He was huge—taller than Sam, actually. He was dressed in furs and pine needles, naked from the waist up. He bore a spear in one hand, which was itself at least as tall as Dean, tipped with iron. A hunting horn hung at his side. The part about him that actually sort of scared Dean was the fact that he had antlers, real antlers like an elk’s, growing from his head. Whatever he was, he wasn’t human.

“The Huntsman,” Sam said quietly. “The one who leads the Wild Hunt.”

He stopped a few steps from Sam and Dean and observed them for a moment. When his eyes—narrow and cunning and as black as night—met Dean’s, he wanted to drop the shotgun and run. He didn’t. If Sam was going to stand his ground, Dean was damn well going to do the same.

“You are the ones who summoned the Hunt?” The Huntsman’s voice was surprisingly soft. 

“Yes,” Sam said. “We need your help.”

The Huntsman raised his eyebrows. “The Wild Hunt is not given to aiding mortals. We would prefer to chase them, if we could. Your angel is prey only. Why should we help you?”

Sam faltered. The silence stretched for one beat, two beats, three. Dean forced words out of his mouth. “Because it’s a challenge. A competition. That’s why you brought the Gruesome Twosome. You’re gonna let them chase him, aren’t you?”

A wide, savage smile snapped across the Huntsman’s face. Dean flinched. Dude had teeth like a goddamn shark. “You have good instincts,” he said. “It is true, you will not be the only ones pursuing your fallen angel tonight.”

“Damn,” Sam muttered.

“There are rules, though. When we ride, each of us has a chance to catch the angel,” the Huntsman said. He looked around at the four of them. “Whoever makes the catch must claim the catch, by blood or by bond.”

Dean looked at Sam. “What does that mean?” he whispered.

Sam shrugged, never looking away from the Huntsman.

“Is that all?” Crowley drawled. His eyes, Dean noticed, shone red in the light of Rowena’s lantern.

“Those are the only rules you must know,” the Huntsman said. He turned, dismissing Crowley, and looked right at Sam. “Why do you choose to ride with the Wild Hunt tonight?”

“I—um—” Dean saw Sam pull himself together, set his jaw and straighten up. “Castiel is my friend,” he said firmly. “I’ve abandoned him too often. I’m not going to let that happen again.”

The Huntsman nodded. “A good reason,” he said. “You shall wear ivy, for constancy.” He lifted a crown of twisted ivy strands and set it on Sam’s head. Dean fought the urge to laugh—Sam was so ridiculously solemn, and that ivy crown looked totally hilarious. But then the laughter died because the Huntsman was turning to Dean and staring directly into his eyes. “And you, why do you choose to ride with the Wild Hunt tonight?”

Dean froze like a scared rabbit. He knew what the answer was, but he didn’t want to say it out loud, not in front of Sam and Rowena and Crowley. He was aware of the tension, the fact that if he didn’t answer he might very well end up being chased down himself. The dogs were breathing down his back. He had to say something—“He’s my best friend. He’s family. I can’t just leave him out there, not if I can do something to help him.”

“Fair,” the Huntsman said. He held up a crown of shiny holly leaves, adorned with bright red berries that all but glowed in the moonlight. “You shall wear holly, for love.”

Dean suddenly understood why Sam had been so freaking solemn when the Huntsman had handed over his crown. A weight settled over his shoulders, a heaviness that was definitely magical, compelling him to understand the seriousness of what he was about to do. 

Lazy applause came from behind the Huntsman, from Crowley. “Excellent show,” he said, “but shouldn’t we be off? Little Cassie has quite the head start.”

Sam was already mounting his horse. Dean started to head towards the one that he assumed was his, but he was stopped by a huge hand on his arm. He spun around to find the Huntsman all up in his space, looming up to fill his vision. 

“Winchester,” the Huntsman said softly. “It is not often that the Wild Hunt rides at the command of a heart such as yours. If you catch your fallen angel, make certain that you claim the catch. I would see this hunt end well for you.”

When the Huntsman walked away, Dean realized that somewhere in there he’d forgotten to breathe. He fumbled his way up into the saddle, light-headed and dizzy. 

“You okay?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said. “’m fine.”

Sam’s brows were furrowed, but before he could say anything there was a weird rustling noise and Dean got the distinct feeling that his clothes were getting handsy with him. He looked down and had another moment of dizziness. “The hell?” Sam said.

They were both dressed like they were ready for a LARP, in tunics and hose and boots that had a distinctly medieval feel. Dean was just as warm now as he’d been in his winter coat, but he was wearing a voluminous green cloak instead. Sam, on the other hand, was wearing a rich, dark red. 

Rowena nudged her horse up beside them. “I supposed that you might want to be dressed for the occasion,” she said sweetly. “Does it suit?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Dean said. He was out of his depth here. “Um.”

She patted his knee. “I do hope you find your angel before darling Fergus or I find him,” she said, and urged her horse forward.

The Huntsman’s horse trotted ahead, into the moonlight. There was a second when they were illuminated, looking like some sort of strange frozen sculpture. Then the horse reared, and the Huntsman lifted his spear high. “Hark for’ard!” he cried, and lifted the horn to blow two short, sharp blasts. 

Dean’s blood pounded in his ears as the dogs bayed and surged forward around the hooves of the horses. He just barely touched his heels to his horse’s sides and the animal leaped forward, racing along with the dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the hunt begins!
> 
> Rowena is wearing mistletoe, which has a contradictory meaning. Although it symbolizes someone who is a parasite, it is also traditional for enemies who meet under mistletoe to declare a time of truce or peace.
> 
> The meaning of Crowley's rhododendron crown is simple: beware, I am dangerous.
> 
> Sam's ivy crown symbolizes friendship, affection, and loyalty. 
> 
> Pine, which is incorporated into the Huntsman's garments, symbolizes both holiday celebrations and eternal life.
> 
> And then there's Dean, who gets to wear holly. His crown means defense, stubbornness, and love.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn’t even have time to be scared. He didn’t have time for nausea and panic to drown him in remembrances of hellhounds and things baying for his soul. The world twisted and warped around him so that all he could feel was the pull of the hunt, the pull of prey that would shortly be pulled out to face the hounds. Dean couldn’t really ride all that well, never had the chance to learn properly, but right now he knew how to ride a horse. The stallion’s canter couldn’t even throw him off: he posted like he’d been doing it every day of his life. 

The Huntsman was in the lead, antlers glinting in the moonlight, urging on the dogs with short horn calls and eager shouts. Rowena, bent low over her horse’s neck, was next in the line, flashing a wicked grin behind at Dean every now and then. Sam had managed to keep up with her, and clearly his blood was up too because Dean could hear him joining in the Huntsman’s shouts. Crowley had fallen in just ahead of Dean, and in that black getup he was nothing more than a shadow speeding through the trees, soundless but for his horse’s hooves rushing through the snow. And then there was Dean, at the back of the riders.

Wherever they were going, they certainly were going with purpose. Obviously the Huntsman knew what was going on, even if Dean really didn’t. The hounds pulled ahead, vanishing into the darkness of the night. He wasn’t actually sure they were still in the forest—he couldn’t see trees, just blurred shapes moving past that could have been anything at all. The only real thing was the horse moving under him and the pull in his chest that could really only be the presence of Cas, somewhere ahead in the night.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed at them with one hand, trying to get rid of the tears blurring his vision. The wind out here was awful. When he opened his eyes, everything was different. They definitely weren’t in the forest anymore. The horse’s hooves weren’t hitting the ground anymore and honestly Dean had no idea what they were even running on. When he chanced a look past the horse’s side and his jutting knee, he could only see blackness. The moon glowed down through a haze of driving snow that glittered all around. He coughed hard and scrubbed a hand over his eyes again.

Suddenly, the Huntsman sounded a new call: three long, wavering, mournful blasts. The hounds bayed and changed direction.

The pull in his chest shifted like the needle on a compass, spinning wildly before settling off to one side. Dean looked in the direction of the tugging sensation and saw nothing but snow and stars. But he was suddenly, absolutely certain that the Hunt was going the wrong way. 

Just as Dean reined in his horse, the Huntsman sounded another call. A series of long, even, repeated blasts pealed through the darkness, along with stern shouts. And the Wild Hunt roared off across the sky, in the wrong direction from Cas. 

For a second he felt bad about abandoning Sam to Rowena and Crowley. But he’d be okay. Dean pulled the reins and turned his horse in the direction of the pull. The horse whickered, unwilling to go, slowing and sidling towards the Huntsman. Dean growled and held firm, pulling the reins and driving his heels into the horse’s flanks. Finally, the horse gave in and began to move toward where Dean was increasingly sure that Cas was hiding. 

He blinked and when he opened his eyes everything had changed again. Now they were moving through a city, empty streets lit eerily by streetlights and flickering Christmas lights over stores. The horse’s hooves clattered on the icy street. Dean couldn’t hear the hounds anymore. He’d lost the rest of the Wild Hunt.

The pull suddenly blossomed into a gorgeous warmth. Dean reined in his horse. “Cas?” he called out. His voice echoed through the streets, disappearing into the night. 

A shadow emerged from one of the alleys, keeping a wary distance. “Dean?” 

Dean slid off the horse, scrambling to keep his balance and keep hold of the reins. He fumbled for a moment, then looped the reins around a parking meter and rushed over to Cas. His legs were beginning to register the ache of unfamiliar riding, but he didn’t care. “Cas!”

The angel looked haggard and weary, dark shadows under his eyes. “Was the Wild Hunt really your only option? Really, Dean?”

“…let’s focus on getting out of here,” Dean said. Cas wore only his white shirt, no suit jacket or trenchcoat. His pants were wet to the knees, hems coated with snow. His hair was wet, the tips frosted over and frozen stiff. “What happened to your coat?”

“Other angels,” Cas said, and clammed up. He folded his arms and Dean could see him shivering.

He yanked at the ties of the cloak. “Here, take this—”

“Dean,” Cas said, and yeah, there it was, that half-exasperated half-fond tone that Dean had been missing. But he didn’t fight it when Dean wrapped the ridiculously long piece of fabric around him. He fussed at the ties a little more than might have been necessary. Which dark patches on Cas’s shirt were shadows and which were bloodstains? 

“Warmer?” Dean asked, pulling the cloak over Cas’s shoulders and peering anxiously into the angel’s tired face.

Cas fisted his hands in the cloak and nodded. “Yes. Should we not be going?”

Dean pulled Cas toward the horse. “We’re gonna head for the bunker. It’s got enough wards to keep out damn near anything, you’ll be safe there.”

“Did you do any actual research before summoning up the Wild Hunt?” Cas asked, slamming to a halt. “No, really, Dean, that is a serious question. If you get me into the bunker, I will never be able to leave. They will stand outside until I emerge and then kill me.”

Dean stood there in awkward thought for a second. “…I…um…whatever, Cas! We can figure out how to get rid of them once you’re safe!” Dean resumed pulling Cas to the horse.

A dog yelped, somewhere out in the dark city. 

Dean’s blood froze. It didn’t sound anything like the hounds of the Wild Hunt. It was deeper, angrier, burning with hate and rage.

“That’s…Dean, that’s a Hellhound!” Cas stared at him.

“Oh, damn,” Dean breathed. “I…um…Rowena and Crowley are riding with the Hunt, too, they might have brought Hellhounds.” 

Cas glared. “Dean Winchester, I am really starting to doubt that you actually have a brain in your head, which is saying something when I was the one who put it there. I cannot believe you—”

More barking echoed through the streets, coming closer and closer. “We gotta go, Cas,” Dean said. He helped the freezing angel onto the horse—which was the most patient animal ever—and when they were secure in the saddle, Cas’s arms wrapped around Dean’s waist, Dean’s hands knotted in the reins, he kicked the horse into motion. 

It seemed to know that the hounds on their tail weren’t its usual friendly group. It broke straight into a canter, running pell-mell back the way they’d come initially. The Hellhounds were giving chase, baying so loud that it sounded like they were right on the horse’s heels. Dean gave the horse its head and then concentrated on staying in the saddle. His vision was going narrow and he was losing his balance, but he had to stay on the horse because otherwise Cas would fall off. Though the angel seemed to have a better grip on the horse than Dean did. And he was hanging onto Dean so tightly that Dean’s ribs hurt. 

A flash of fiery eyes blazed past and something snapped at Dean’s leg, catching and tearing. He yelled and wrenched away from the Hellhound, overbalancing and almost toppling off the horse’s other side. Cas, though, managed to hang on. He pulled Dean back upright.

“How much further!?” Cas shouted over the roaring wind.

“I don’t know!” Dean yelled back. He just hoped the horse knew where it was going.

They raced across that weird, dark, snowy expanse of space. The Hellhounds were closing in, faster than the horse could run. Dean was choking down panic at this point. If the Hellhounds caught him again…he did his best to focus on where they were running.

Without warning they were careening through the trees again. Branches snapped out, threatening to knock them from their horse. The reins cut into Dean’s fingers but he didn’t let go. His face burned from the ice hitting him. 

The horse plowed into a small, brambly clearing in the trees and slowed to a halt. Its sides heaved and Dean’s stomach sank. It bowed its head, trembling. 

“No, no, no!” Dean slid out of the saddle. The reins left burning lines over his hands. He was knee-deep in the snow, but he tried to pull the horse forward anyway. It didn’t move, just stared at him with hazy blank eyes.

Cas hit the ground behind him with an undignified noise. “We have to go,” he said, untangling the reins from Dean’s hands.

Hellhounds all around them bayed and barked, sounding so eerily familiar that Dean wasn’t sure he could move. But Cas was holding his hand, so he did. They staggered through the knee-deep snow, holding onto each other.

Behind them, bells jingled and horses whickered. “How sweet!” Rowena exclaimed. “Holding hands like we’re just playing tag.”

Dean spun around, shoving Cas behind him. “I caught him!” he snapped. “Get back!”

Crowley slid off his horse gracefully. “Unfortunately for you,” he said, “I don’t think you bothered to claim the catch.” He pulled out an angel blade and spun it. It glinted in the moonlight.

“Luckily we’re here to rectify that mistake.” Rowena didn’t get off her horse, just smiled and tilted her head innocently. “Any last words for each other? I think we can spare a moment.”

Dean shivered and looked back at Cas. “I…I’m sorry,” he said.

The angel’s grip on his hand tightened. “You have nothing for which to apologize,” he said.

“How sweet,” Rowena said. “Now, Fergus darling, if you would be so kind?”

“All I have to do is draw blood,” Crowley said, walking easily through the snow. “Too easy, Winchester. But I can believe you’re stupid enough that you didn’t bother doing any research before summoning up the Hunt.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Is that all any of you are going to think about?” He kept himself between Crowley and Cas, staring at that silver blade. He was probably going to die. He thought he would be okay with that, if it meant Cas had a chance to get away.

“Yes, that’s all we’re going to think about! Blood or bond, Dean!” Cas hissed in his ear. “I don’t think it’s too much to ask for some critical thinking! You don’t have to stab me to claim me!”

His heart went into his throat and he turned around. Cas was all up in his space and for the first time in…well. For the first time just about ever Dean didn’t want him to step back. His back was to Crowley and the demon was talking, but Dean didn’t care what he was saying because Cas was right there, staring at him with infinite patience and a little bit of exasperation and a whole lot of…

_You shall wear holly_ , the Huntsman said in his head. _You shall wear holly for love_.

He dragged Cas against him and kissed him. It wasn’t exactly Dean’s best effort: usually he was a little less shy and a little more passionate. But Cas didn’t seem to care. He just tilted his head slightly for a better angle. When they broke apart, breathing in each other’s air and staring into each other’s eyes, Dean didn’t even want to speak. Cas didn’t seem to have that problem. “Finally,” he said. 

Crowley made a gagging noise. “Oh, disgusting,” he said. The Hellhounds whined with annoyance.

“I think it’s rather sweet,” Rowena said. 

A long, tremulous horn call rolled through the clearing and Dean thought he was going to jump out of his skin. He spun around. Sam and the Huntsman trotted into view. Sam had the body of a huge white stag draped over the horse behind him, and was grinning. The Huntsman lowered the horn from his lips and smiled widely. “The Hunt is ended,” he proclaimed.

Dean all but sagged with relief. He pressed his shoulder against Cas’s. “So…we’re good?” he asked, staring at the Huntsman.

“Indeed,” the horned man said. “You have caught your quarry, and I have caught mine.” He lifted the stag easily from Sam’s horse and transferred it to his own. 

Sam slid off his horse and bowed to the Huntsman before stepping over to join Dean and Cas where they stood. He had blood on his hands, but he looked happier than Dean had seen him in a while. 

“Dirty trick,” Crowley muttered, sliding the angel blade into his jacket. “Letting Winchester get ahead of us while you changed quarries.”

“I did no such thing,” the Huntsman said. His eyes glinted in the moonlight. “We began hunting the angel, but he went quite well to ground. It only made sense to alter our chosen quarry.”

Crowley scowled, but said nothing more.

The Huntsman stepped down from his horse and came to stand before Cas. “Well chased, fallen angel,” he said. Cas gravely bowed his head, and the Huntsman set a crown of bluish juniper needles on his frosty hair. 

“Our business is complete,” the Huntsman said. He climbed back into his horse’s saddle, and just as he raised his horn he looked at Dean and said, “Well done.”

The wind rose, driving clouds over the moon and carrying heavy snow into the clearing. Dean blinked and shook his head. He saw, for just a second, the figure of the Huntsman on his rearing horse, lifting the horn to his lips again, dogs leaping all around. A faint horn call sounded.

When the snow cleared, Dean was alone in the clearing with just Sam and Cas for company.

They all looked at each other for a moment, dressed in their motley hunting gear, Sam stained with deer blood, Cas covered in snow and wearing a bloodstained shirt, Dean bleeding from a Hellhound bite to the leg. All three of them wearing their crowns of greenery. It looked ridiculous with their flannel shirts and ragged jeans.

“Good job finding him,” Sam said at last.

“Let’s never do this again,” Dean said.

“Can we go home?” Cas asked.

Dean stopped breathing for a second. He felt like his heart was too big for his chest. They were going home. Finally, finally, they were all going to go home. He put an arm around Cas’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I am a GIANT NERD, I feel like I should include some extra info. My Wild Hunt and the Huntsman are composites of various myths and stories about the Wild Hunt. You can check out some of those stories [here](http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/huntsman.html).
> 
> Also, there is a place where you can actually listen to horn and voice calls used when hunting. The North West Hunt Saboteurs [provide audio files](http://www.nwhsa.org.uk/horn.html) so you can listen to all the signals I used in the story. (If any of my readers are hunters and I messed something up, please let me know so I can fix it!)
> 
> Oh, and as to Cas's crown...juniper traditionally symbolizes a great journey, healing, and, of course, love.
> 
> So...that's a wrap! Stay tuned for the epilogue, coming soon to an archive near you. Thank you for reading, and may whatever winter holiday you celebrate be merry!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the epilogue! Have some fluff for your holidays. :)

It was the morning of the twenty-second of December and Sam Winchester had just broken his alarm clock. 

As usual, it went off at six a.m., but he’d been up until three a.m. last night charging all over Creation with the Wild Hunt. So that was three hours of sleep. Total.

Well, he wasn’t getting any more sleep tonight. This morning. Whatever. Sam hauled himself out of bed. He yawned and picked up the alarm clock, cracked from where it had hit the floor, setting it back on the nightstand. Thinking vaguely of coffee, Sam rubbed his eyes and wandered out into the hall.

Dean’s door was half open. Sam looked blearily in, just checking to make sure that he hadn’t entirely dreamed last night. But no: they were both in bed together, Dean wrapped around Cas, sleeping the sleep of the just. Good. Sam smiled and pulled the door quietly shut. He didn’t want them to wake up. 

Someone (Sam didn’t recall who) had the forethought to set up the coffee machine last night. He had to wait for it to percolate, but he didn’t really mind. It gave him time to think about the Wild Hunt and everything that had happened.

It had been amazing. These days, Sam rarely felt so free and really, genuinely happy. Somehow, when they’d turned to chase after the stag, Sam had managed to pull ahead of the Huntsman. He didn’t know where it came from, but a spear had appeared in his hand. On instinct, he’d thrown it. The shot had been perfect. The stag had fallen, bleeding on the snow.

“It is your catch,” the Huntsman had said when Sam looked back at him. “Go. Claim it.”

And he had. It had been badly hurt by the spear, and could barely lift its head. He’d pulled a knife from his belt—not the demon-killing knife, some sense told him that wouldn’t be right—and, staring into the animal’s dark eyes, had slit its throat. His hands had been covered in blood as he stroked the stag’s soft fur and it drew its last breath. It was almost…peaceful.

He’d been the one to carry the stag back to the forest, riding side-by-side with the Huntsman. The dogs frolicked around their horses, barking and playing, anxious for a reward for their good work. When they weren’t on the chase, Sam thought, they were appealing creatures. Dean’s expression when Sam had appeared had been downright comical. But Cas had honestly looked proud. Sam could have sworn that his heart grew three sizes right then, seeing them standing there holding hands and blushing like dumb teenagers. 

But it was all surreal now, in the light of day. Sam shook off his sleepy fugue and poured himself a cup of coffee. Steam swirled up into the cold bunker air as he took a long sip. The concrete floors were freezing on his bare feet, but Sam didn’t care. He just sat down on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table, drowsily browsing his laptop for news. 

Sam almost had to laugh when he looked at the weather. A freak blizzard had rolled across the Midwest last night. An average of four feet of snow, dumped as far north as Edmonton in Canada and as far south as Dallas in Texas. In Kansas, drifts as deep as eight feet were reported and drivers were advised to stay off the roads. “Whoops,” Sam said, grinning. If he had to guess, that was their fault. It would be a white Christmas after all.

He wanted to see what it looked like outside, so he grabbed boots and a jacket to pull on over his pajamas, leaving the coffee cup on the counter. He wouldn’t be outside long. It wouldn’t be too bad. It was freezing in the entryway, though, and the bunker door was alarmingly stuck. Looked like it had iced to the frame. He practically had to beat it down. But it was worth the sore shoulder, in the end. He had to be careful going up the stairs, because of the foot of snow and layer of ice on them. At the top of the steps, by the side of the road, he stopped and just stared.

“Winter wonderland” would be putting it mildly. Everything was half-sunk in drifts of soft snow, shaded in variations of blue in the faint pre-dawn light. The trees crackled with heavy frost, branches sagging under the weight of the ice. Pillows of snow lay everywhere, drifts covering the road and the hill, a seamlessly soft coat that smoothed the whole world into white. There weren’t any cars on the road. Everything was silent, except for the faint sound of Sam’s own breathing. His breath clouded in the air, and glittered as it froze. It was perfect.

He stood transfixed. They hadn’t seen snow like this for a long time, and usually it was the kind of thing that meant only extra scraping and the need to put chains on the Impala’s tires. But today…today it was just beautiful. 

The faint sound of jingling bells knocked Sam from his reverie. Feeling a surge of déjà vu, he stepped backwards a bit, grasping at the stair rail for balance. He stared down the road toward the noise. It couldn’t possibly be…

Around the bend in the road, a red sleigh bedecked in golden bells and wreaths of greenery came into view. It was drawn by a great white stag, a huge proud animal that Sam definitely recognized, driven by a very familiar man. Sam’s eyes felt like they were going to drop out of his head.

“Good dawning to you, friend!” the Huntsman said as the sleigh drew to a halt in front of Sam.

“Um—likewise,” Sam managed to say. He tried to look less shocked. He was pretty sure he failed.

The Huntsman rose to his feet and stepped down from the sleigh. The stag didn’t move, only snorted and tossed its huge head as the reins fell with a ringing of dozens of tiny bells. The Huntsman’s appearance had changed a lot since last night. The great antlers he’d sported were now small, inoffensive horns with three small prongs each. His teeth were duller, his eyes were warmer, and he was shorter, only about as tall as Sam. Rather than the hunting garb, he wore a long red robe trimmed with dark fur, though the crown of pine remained atop his head.

“I see you are well,” the Huntsman said, studying Sam. “The hunt agreed with you?”

“It did,” Sam said. He smiled when he thought of it all again. “I…enjoyed it more than I expected.”

The Huntsman smiled in return. “It is rare to meet a mortal hunter of such skill, my friend. You rode with the Wild Hunt and caught the quarry. You must take pride in that.”

Sam ducked his head a little, feeling himself turn a little red. “I will,” he said quietly. He glanced at the sleigh. “Um. I hate to be so abrupt, but…why are you here?”

“My purpose here is twofold,” the Huntsman said. “First, I would extend an invitation.”

“An…invitation?” Sam parroted. “For what?”

“As I have said, Sam Winchester, you are a hunter of exceptional passion and talent. On Solstice next, when the Wild Hunt rides again, I would ask that you accompany us again.” The Huntsman held out a hand. Sam wasn’t sure where he’d gotten it, but he was holding a hunting horn, gorgeously worked and obviously the product of a master craftsman. “Take this. If you would ride again, simply sound it and I shall find you.”

Sam took the horn, feeling out of his depth but also sort of ridiculously excited. “I—I will,” he stammered, looping the strap over his shoulder. “Thank—”

The Huntsman raised his hand. “Do not thank me yet,” he said with a broad grin. “For there is another matter to which I would attend. If you wish to again ride with the Wild Hunt, it is only right that you also have a hound with which to hunt.”

For a second, Sam had no idea what the Huntsman meant. The tall man turned and bent over the sleigh, and when he turned back again he was holding a small, wriggling ball of dark fur in his arms. A tiny head poked up over the red sleeve and Sam’s jaw actually dropped. The puppy yapped, more of a squeak than anything else, tiny paws scrabbling at the Huntsman’s arm. 

“I have heard that you like dogs,” the Huntsman said. “If you wish, this one—of the bloodline of the Hounds of the Wild Hunt—can be yours.”

“Of course,” Sam breathed, holding out his hands. The Huntsman passed him the puppy, which immediately burrowed up against Sam’s chest, trying to climb up him to lick his face. It was small enough to fit in his cupped hands. He looked up from it to see the Huntsman looking incredibly amused. “But—but why?” 

The Huntsman was entirely inscrutable. “It is a mortal tradition to give gifts at this season, is it not?” he asked, hands folded into his sleeves like some kind of red-robed, probably non-human Christmas monk. “You presented me with the gift of skill and courage. It is right that I return the favor in whatever small way I can.”

“Thank you,” Sam said. He was smiling so hard that his face hurt. “Really. Thank you. I don’t know how I can pay you back.”

“Grant me your presence on Solstice next,” the Huntsman said, “and we shall call the debt entirely even. After all, there is more to my gift. I have left you the things you will need to care for your pup in the kitchen of your Bunker.”

At that, Sam froze. “How did you get in?” he asked.

The Huntsman laughed, climbing back up into the sleigh. “There are some mysteries, Sam Winchester, that I believe I shall not reveal to you just yet.” Sam sputtered, but the Huntsman was already snapping the reins. “Until the Solstice, fare thee well!” he cried, the stag already beginning to trot forward, pulling the sleigh down the road.

“Thank you!” Sam shouted after the Huntsman as the sleigh disappeared. He stood still for a moment, staring after the sleigh, and then remembered the puppy in his arms. He looked down at it and found it looking up at him with bright, intelligent eyes. It was adorable: big eyes and a big nose and giant floppy ears on a little face, with tiny paws and a little wagging tail that went whap whap whap against Sam’s arm. It barked at him. He smiled. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

It didn’t seem to want to get down, though it did want to look at everything as Sam carried it into the bunker. He heard sounds from the kitchen as he came down the stairs, trying to shuck his jacket and boots without dropping either the puppy or the horn. When he walked around the corner into the kitchen, Cas was at the table and Dean was standing in the doorway, holding a large bag of dog food. 

“—is this!?” he was demanding loudly.

Cas yawned and gestured at Sam. “Ask him,” he said.

Dean dropped the bag on the counter and glared halfheartedly at Sam. “Why are you holding a dog?” he asked.

Sam held the puppy tighter on reflex. “The Huntsman gave it to me,” he said with all the dignity he could muster. “As a Christmas present.”

“Seriously?” Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t seem to have much fight in him. He picked up a coffee cup from the counter and sat down next to Cas. “It doesn’t get to ride in the Impala.”

Sam grinned and sat down across from them, setting the puppy on the table. It plopped down, tongue lolling and paws flailing. He scratched its tummy and it made a pleased whining sound. “Sure, Dean,” he said. 

Cas leaned across the table to gently pet the puppy’s head. “It’s very cute,” he said. “You must have really impressed the Huntsman, Sam.”

Sam thought, for a second, about telling them about the invitation to ride again next year. But something told him that Dean was going to get shouty about that, so he didn’t. “Yeah,” he said instead. “I must have. What should I name it?”

“Cujo,” Dean said immediately. 

“It’s a female,” Cas said. He patted Dean’s hand consolingly. “I believe Cujo was male.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

Sam scooped up the puppy. She wiggled frantically, licking his nose when he brought her close to his face. “What about Jess?” he asked, crossing his eyes to look at her. “Do you like that one, girl?” She barked and licked him again. A paw hit him in the cheek, but he didn’t mind. 

“Really? Jess?” Dean shook his head. “Of all the names—”

“Hush, Dean,” Cas said. 

He was pretty sure that they were giving each other the Look again. He didn’t even mind. As far as Sam was concerned, tiny Jess was the best Christmas present he’d ever had. Looking around the table, with a happy dog in his arms, his brother and his best friend holding hands and finally looking genuinely happy, Sam was pretty sure this was actually the best Christmas he’d ever had.


End file.
